Dead Down East

by Carl Schmidt

  • • •

  It was a beautiful sunny day for a drive. The girls chatted incessantly—all except Rhonda. She rested silently in a holster on my belt. We all hoped she’d stay put. Misty foresaw no involvement for Rhonda today.

  After forty-five minutes, we crossed the small bridge separating Sebascodegan Island from the mainland. Doughty Cove lay on the right as we approached our destination. Traffic was very light. I located the narrow dirt driveway and parked the car behind some trees. I asked everyone to listen quietly for a couple of minutes to make sure we hadn’t been spotted and that there was no one else around.

  After five minutes, it was obvious we had the area to ourselves. Only one car had passed on Route 24 during that time, and it sailed by. We got out of the car, made our way back to the highway and divided into pairs. Cynthia and Misty turned right; Angele and I turned left.

  In less than a minute, Angele spotted a license plate lying face down. It was about forty feet from the highway in some high grass near a tree. She flipped it over with a stick. There it was: GOFURS.

  “Hello,” she cried.

  “Shhh,” I whispered. “We’re undercover. Let’s keep looking.”

  I spotted the Glock a half-minute later, about twenty feet deeper into the thicket. It had come to rest under a bush.

  I waved to the others to rendezvous back at the car.

  Cynthia and Misty had no intention of leaving without seeing what we had found. They quickly rushed over and squealed with delight as soon as they saw the .45. At that moment, it occurred to me that I might be more appealing to women if I carried a larger caliber gun. You hear it all the time that “size doesn’t matter,” but now I was having second thoughts.

  “I won’t touch the weapon, Jesse,” Misty said, “but I want to get a reading here.”

  “You go, girl,” said Angele.

  Misty knelt down, put her hands six inches over the Glock and closed her eyes. A minute later, she stood up and announced, “I see a moose.”

  Angele and Cynthia quickly looked around through the trees.

  “This is moose country, Misty,” I said. “I’m sure there are plenty of them around. But what does this have to do with murder?”

  “Wait. It’s not a whole moose…it’s just the head. I see a moose head.”

  “Oh. OK. There’s Moosehead Lake or Moosehead Beer. If you go to any Moose Lodge you’ll find a moose head or two hanging on the wall. Can you be more specific?”

  “No, not at the moment. But it’s plain as day. It’s a moose head.”

  “Alright,” I said. “I’ll put a moose head on my radar. Now let’s make like hockey players and get the puck outta here.”

  With that, we all hustled to the car. I backed out near the highway, turned sharply and headed north. I was feeling rather manly under the circumstances, with three women in the car and a .38 Special on my hip—so I gunned it a bit. The Forester didn’t exactly peel rubber, but it fishtailed a little, and some gravel flew under the chassis. We were back on the mainland in forty-five seconds.

  “The FBI never thought to check the other side of the highway?” Cynthia asked.

  “Possibly,” I replied. “However, if they’d seen the license plate, they wouldn’t have thought much of it anyway. There’s all sorts of litter along the road. That gun was pretty well hidden in the undergrowth. But they’ll be coming back again, real soon. When I tell them about the Glock, they’ll show up like worms in a compost pile.”

  “How are you going to contact them, Jesse?” Cynthia asked.

  “Our next stop is the Holiday Inn Express in Brunswick. I’m sure they have a computer in the lobby or in a room on the main floor. The FBI and the Maine State Police both have web pages for the purpose of leaving anonymous tips.

  “Here’s what I have in mind. All three of you will go to the front desk and engage the attendants. Tell them you are planning some kind of a convention in Brunswick. You want to see the amenities and learn about their group rates. While you are keeping them busy, I’ll lag behind and look around as if I’m checking the place out. When I find a computer I can use, I’ll sit down and send off an anonymous tip to both agencies.”

  Angele was all over it.

  “Let’s make it a legal convention,” she beamed. “I work with lawyers every day. They are always looking for an excuse to get out of the office. I have a business card with the name of our law firm on it. That should get their attention.”

  “I’d better stay in the car,” Misty said. “I’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

  “No, no,” I replied. “Go in separately and then just look around the lobby. You’ll be an added distraction.”

  “There you go,” she said. “I was born to play that role.”

  We pulled into the entrance of the Holiday Inn and set the wheels in motion. My accomplices were perfect. With two beautiful women at the main desk, a lawyer’s convention in the offing, and a roving psychic in a tie-dye dress, I had all the cover I needed to slip into the computer room unnoticed. I booted up an available PC and got online. Within a minute, I found the two websites and posted the following tip on both of them:

  You’ll find the gun that murdered Governor Lavoilette across the road from the crime scene, on the west side of the highway. It’s about fifty feet northwest of the mailbox. You’ll also find a license plate, “GOFURS,” lying nearby. That plate was stolen and used on the getaway car.

  If you make a wider search from that point north to the bridge, you may also find a white towel with powder marks on it, a fake beard and a pair of gloves.

  I’ll be in touch.

  Samuel Spade, Jr.

  The code name would establish a reference for future communications. After they find that gun, Sammy will be on the top of their snitch list.

  I strolled out of the Holiday Inn Express and got into my car. The women were right on my tail.

  • • •

  We were back in Augusta by four o’clock. I drove to Misty’s shop and walked her to the door. I handed her two freshly minted fifty-dollar bills.

  “What’s the hundred dollars for?” she asked.

  “That’s on my account. We’ll settle up, as per your instructions, when the case is closed. In the meantime, I’ll keep my eyes open for the head of a moose, and I’ll try to keep my own melon in one piece. Which reminds me… Have you received any further word on the second dead guy?”

  “Not yet. But if he shows up in my tea leaves, you’ll be the first one I call.”

  “By the way, I’ve been wondering about something,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Earlier today in the parking lot, how could you tell which car was mine?” I asked.

  “I watched you drive up,” she replied.

  “Thanks, Misty.”

  Angele, Cynthia, Rhonda and I made our way back to the Thorpe Estate. Cynthia retired to her room. Angele and I went to my office.

  “I need to get home this evening, Jesse. I have a little work to do tonight. I want to be back in Portland by eight, so I figure I’ll have to leave about six-thirty.”

  “I might be making a trip down there either on Friday or Monday,” I said. “I’m hoping I can arrange an appointment with Dennis Jackson.”

  “Who’s that?” she asked.

  I opened the spreadsheet of the governor’s affairs and pointed to Michelle Jackson’s name, just below Cynthia’s on the list. I gave her the full rundown of what I knew, including a detailed account of my phone call with Dennis. Angele’s eyes lit up.

  “I think he’s guilty,” Angele blurted out.

  “We’ll see. There are lots of possibilities.”

  “Yes, but I have a nose for this kind of thing. I’ll bet you a hundred dollars Dennis arranged the murder.”

  “That’s a little steep, Angele,” I replied.

  “OK. Twenty then.”

  “Why not,” I said. “It’s a bet.”

  I pulled a twenty out of my wallet and hande
d it to her. “You can give me two of these if we find out that Dennis was not involved.”

  Angele unhooked the top button of her blouse and slipped the twenty into her bra, “for safekeeping” she said. “There, it’s in the bank.”

  “I love doing business with you,” I said.

  “Jesse, darling, we are a full-service bank.”

  “What other services do you provide?” I asked.

  “Let me see here…we have online banking, loans, IRAs, audits…”

  “I don’t need any of those, Angele.”

  “Would you like to open a safety deposit box?”

  “Sounds interesting,” I said. “Would that be possible so late in the afternoon?”

  “Today is Wednesday, Boo. The bank is open till six.”

  I checked my watch. It was 4:30.

  “We’ve got an hour and a half,” I said enthusiastically.

  “That should be enough time,” she said. “But remember, there is a penalty for early withdrawals. You’ll find your box in the room down the hall. I’ll walk you there.”

  We got to my bedroom in eight and a half seconds, and left a trail of socks and underwear scattered on the floor. It was an exceptional day. The bank stayed open till 6:30.

  18

  The Mistress List

  First thing Thursday morning, I called Dennis Jackson. I had used my landline to call him the first time. He would recognize the caller ID, so I used my cell. It’s unlisted. In case he might recognize my voice, I pulled off a sock and draped it over the mouthpiece to muffle the sound…a bit smelly, but effective.

  “Jackson Construction, this is Emma Springer. May I help you?”

  “Good morning, Emma,” I said. “This is Noah Treadwell. Is Dennis Jackson available?”

  “Hold on a minute, I’ll put you through.”

  “This is Dennis Jackson.”

  “Hello, Mr. Jackson,” I said. “My name is Noah Treadwell. I live in Waterville. My partner and I own a tract of forestland adjacent to the Pine Ridge Golf Course just off River Road. We are interested in building a cluster of condominiums on the property. We estimate between twenty-five and thirty units should work well there. We’d like to discuss our plans with you and see what kind of a bid you could make for the construction.”

  “I would be happy to drive up this afternoon and have a look.”

  “Actually, I am calling from Boston. I’ll be passing through Portland on my way home on Friday. Would it be possible to meet with you in your office tomorrow morning, around ten o’clock?”

  “That would be fine.”

  “I have your business address on Cumberland Ave. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “OK. I’ll be there at 10:00 AM,” I said.

  “See you then, Mr. Treadwell.”

  • • •

  Billy Mosher is the keyboard player for Ocean Noises. He also does the graphic design work for our band—posters, newspaper announcements, and other promotional items. He can whip out a business card in five minutes.

  I called Billy.

  “What’s up?”

  “Billy, you’re coming over for practice this evening, right?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah.”

  “I have a couple of favors to ask you.”

  “Name ‘em.”

  “First, I need a business card. I’m on a case.”

  “Ah, ha! Another alias. Who are yah now?”

  “I’m Noah Treadwell. I live in Waterville. I own a parcel of land, and I want a contractor to build condos on it. I also have a partner. Make something that looks good.”

  “No problem. What’s the name of your partnership?”

  “Let’s call it Forest Estates. That’s should work. The land is just trees now. Put down a fake address and phone number. I’m only meeting with this guy once. I don’t want any callbacks. Print a dozen or so.”

  “I’ll bring ‘em over when I come. That’s ‘N-O-A-H…T-R-E-A-D-W-E-L-L’ right?” He spelled it out for me.

  “Right,” I echoed.

  “Does ‘Forest’ have one R or two?”

  “Just one, Billy. Use your spell checker.”

  “Just messin’ with yah, Jesse. I’ll paste on a picture of some condos under the logo.”

  “Second thing I need is some Photoshop work on a few pictures.”

  “OK.”

  “Look at your email. You’ll see that I sent you four attached photographs. Can you pull them up?”

  “I saw them a few minutes ago. Have you been fishin’ for bluefin?”

  “Not me. Do you see the guy in the denim jacket?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I need you to crop the photos so you can’t identify the boat or anyone else in the picture. Show as much of him as possible. Also, do you see the bandage on his right hand on the last picture?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I need that in the picture for sure. Enhance them to the highest resolution.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Billy said.

  “When you’re done, email them back to me.”

  “My fees have gone up lately, Jesse.”

  “I’ll buy you a lobster dinner at the Fish Tale.”

  “Good enough.”

  “See you at seven tonight,” I said. “Oh wait a minute. I heard we might have a gig on Friday evening. Any word on that?”

  “We’re playing at the Raincloud in Gardiner on Friday at eight o’clock. The Killer Johnsons cancelled. Bucky Johnson has laryngitis.”

  “OK,” I said, and hung up.

  • • •

  I found the number for the Kennebec County Jail and placed the call.

  “Kennebec County Jail, Sergeant Brock Powell speaking.”

  “Brock, this is Jesse.”

  “Hi.”

  “Ocean Noises will be playing Friday night at the Raincloud, eight o’clock. I’ll get you a pass. Just mention my name when you’re at the door. If you have any trouble, call my cell.”

  “Thanks, Jesse. How about a second pass for a date?”

  “OK, two passes. Who are you bringing?”

  “I’ll find somebody.”

  “An inmate, probably,” I suggested.

  “I have a lot of pull here. I can arrange a furlough for my pick of the minimum security prisoners in the women’s wing.”

  “Pat her down for weapons first, Brock. We don’t mind the occasional beer bottle coming our way from the audience, but it’s a bummer dodging bullets.”

  “I know how to pat ‘em down, Jesse. I’ve had lots of practice.”

  “No doubt. Stick around till we finish. I’d like to chat with you.”

  “Will do.”

  • • •

  I pulled up the video surveillance at Cynthia’s home. Fine there. Then I went to CNN news on my computer. The headlines read: “Murder Weapon in Lavoilette Assassination Found. Anonymous Tip Sparks Wider Search.” I read the full story.

  By seven o’clock last night, the FBI had located the Glock, the license plate, a white towel with powder marks, a fake beard and one glove. They were not too happy that all the details were on the news, but it’s hard to keep the lid on things. My guess? There was so much heat on them to show some progress that they facilitated the leak.

  I checked my email. Billy had already sent the cropped photos. That boy is quick as a cricket.

  I printed two copies of each picture and let them sit in the printer tray. Then, I opened my word processor and started typing:

  Enclosed are pictures of a man who calls himself “Justin Cook.” This man stole Travis Perkins’ Glock 21 Gen4, .45 caliber pistol on Saturday morning, June first, and passed it on to an accomplice sometime later in the day. His partner murdered Governor Lavoilette. I suspect that Mr. Cook staked out the governor’s car in the parking lot of the Royal Theater in Brunswick on Saturday night while the governor was watching the movie, Lincoln. When the governor returned to his car, Mr. Cook probably called his partner, who then positioned him
self at the intersection of Highway 24 and Cundys Harbor Road, flagged down our governor and shot him.

  Justin Cook drove a late model, blue Ford Taurus with Maine license plates. The plates were probably stolen.

  Faithfully yours,

  Samuel Spade, Jr.

  I printed two copies of the letter and then put on a pair of gloves. I divided the photos and letters into two sets and put each in a manila envelope. I looked up the addresses for the FBI office in Maine and the sheriff’s office in Augusta and printed out two mailing labels. I put plenty of stamps on each for good measure. Then, I hopped in my car and dropped the envelopes into a mailbox at the post office on Bangor Street.

  I was back home in time for lunch.

  “It’s been a busy morning, Cynthia,” I said. “Did you see the news?”

  “Yes I did. They found the gun and the other evidence at the crime scene.”

  “I will be more vigilant with the surveillance of your home now. If anything happens there, of course, we’ll reassess your living arrangement. By the way, I called my mom yesterday evening. You can move in with her any time you want.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m going to make a sandwich and do some research. It looks as if you’ve eaten already.”

  “Right. I’m good,” she said.

  I made a tuna sandwich, got some chips and an O’Doul’s and retired to my office. I surveyed the spreadsheet listing the women who had had affairs with Governor Lavoilette.

  Cynthia Dumais - 1 year ago - for 1 year

  Michelle Jackson - 1 year ago - for 1 month

  Lori Trumbull - 2 years ago - for 8 months

  Susan St. Claire - 2 years ago - for 2 months

  Tina Woodbury - 3 years ago - for 9 months

  Barbara Davis - 4 years ago - for 6 months

  Cheryl Greenwood - 5 years ago - for 2 months

  Lori Trumbull was next on the list. Richard’s sheet provided her phone number and her place of residence. There was no listing for any other Trumbull at that address, so she was probably single. I decided to call her and set up an interview.